


Exogamy, or The In-Laws

by darkwood



Series: You. Impossible you. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Meet the Family, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sherlock, vague references to forceful interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn't exactly paying attention to his surroundings when they got off the plane and into the car. If he had been he would have known instantly that Mycroft had not taken them back to Montague Street.</p><p>(Rating change for Ch. 4.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Man and Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/496440) by [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash). 



> Inspired by and based on [Jupiter_Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash)'s ["Man and Beast"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/496440). You should read that work first.
> 
> It will also be helpful to you to have read [Requisite Pitstop](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1330744).

~ * ~

 

The surgery was a success, in as much as that the implants had been removed. There was a certain base satisfaction about that, one that Sherlock could feel in all the parts of himself. The wolf in him was pleased to be free of the tether, pleased that John had acquitted himself well in the face of Mycroft's unreasonable posturing, and was contented that John seemed as sincere about his connection to Sherlock as a human could be expected to be.

 

The qualification did not sit well with Sherlock. It tainted the contented feeling, and nagged at Sherlock. Neither part of him was pleased about was John's reticence to speak.

 

Something was bothering John, that much was obvious.

 

When they left the hospital, Sherlock allowed himself to be guided along, trusting Mycroft not to lead them into danger and John to notice it if Mycroft somehow managed not to.

 

Instead, Sherlock concentrated on what he knew for certain about John.

 

John was strong.

 

John was adaptable.

 

John had been through a wolf attack in Afghanistan.

 

Sherlock couldn't remember more about what had happened in Maiwand. The trouble was the battle had been brought to his attention by Mycroft, and most often Mycroft's casual mentioning of things was an attempt to pique Sherlock's curiosity to get him to do abysmally tedious work. Sherlock had trained himself to answer noncommittally whenever Mycroft mentioned current events without retaining much of the facts his brother spoke. From what little he had retained from Mycroft's natterings, Sherlock knew that the wolves in the area had originally resolved to remain out of the conflict. Non-involvement was the general consensus among them all as it was inadvisable to end up in a human hospital being examined by human doctors. Whatever had been happening in Afghanistan, then, something must have gone wrong. The fighting had spilled over into some place that the wolves had to keep safe, or something more personal had caused the attack. John wouldn't know, of course. It was unlikely John knew anything about the wolves that had attacked his unit.

 

It was a rare moment when Sherlock wished he had payed better attention to current events, but he found himself in the midst of one because of John.

 

John.

 

Focus.

 

John likely had not known about wolves before the attack, at least beyond folklore and old wives' tales. He seemed to accept it readily enough, but every mind had its breaking point. For a normal human-

 

A rough snort interrupted that train of thought. John was certainly no 'normal human'. He was singular.

 

_Focus._

 

John had experienced the shock of that revelation at a most unfortunate moment. He had admitted to being feverish, undoubtedly the fevered dreams had featured nightmares of wolves, and while he had been recovering he was taken from the hospital to Russia. Given the travel times and the medication that would likely have been administered -- factoring in the fever when he was taken and the disruption in his treatment, as well as the healthily closed scar and normal body temperature John had when entering Sherlock's cell in Siberia -- it was likely that they had actually been taken within a reasonably short time from each other.

 

There was not enough data to extrapolate further, and the lack of information threatened to drive Sherlock mad.

 

It was a reasonable reaction, given that the source of the information he required - the beloved source of it was John, and John was pressed into his side.

 

Sherlock pressed his hands to his thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of the slacks he had been provided.

 

He knew enough of John that asking him again in the presence of Mycroft would be futile.

 

Not only would John be reticent to respond, neither did Sherlock wish to share the answers with his brother.

 

The problem remained, however, that something was troubling John. His mate was unsettled, unhappy, and Sherlock did not know the source or the solution.

 

As though able to sense Sherlock's agitation, John shifted against his side, cheek against Sherlock's collarbone.

 

Mycroft cast a glance at the two of them that still managed to look more concerned than the smug twitch of his mate's lips from where she spied them at his side.

 

Sherlock refused to admit his own agitation.

 

He _could_ deduce the source of the problem. He **would**. He only had to interpret John's experience of the captivity from his behavior.

 

They were not so dissimilar.

 

 _One must not make assumptions without all of the facts,_ Sherlock chided himself.

 

He considered himself relatively free from any stress related reaction to the experience. The two of them could not be entirely similar, then, if John was experiencing a negative reaction to what they - what he had undergone. When he had been near breaking he was sustained by his lupine side, and then there had been John. Sherlock had to concede that some reaction was not unreasonable to expect from John.

 

Needless to say, he wasn't exactly paying attention to his surroundings when they got off the plane and into the car. If he had been he would have known instantly that Mycroft had not taken them back to Montague Street.

 

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

~ * ~

 

The adrenaline crash from the past few days hit John hard, and he fell asleep once the car started moving. He woke to find them driving through the countryside, decidedly  not  in the city proper. He was against Sherlock's side, which explained the safe feeling that had allowed him to fall asleep and kept him from panicking on waking without memory of how he'd gotten into the car. It took a longer moment to orient himself to his surroundings and catch up with what had happened in the last few hours than John liked. His thoughts felt wrapped in cotton, hard to access.

 

He never had been a fan of pain medication.

 

Focus.

 

They were back in England, obviously.

 

To put things a bit more specifically, the sleek, nondescript-beyond-being-expensive black car was rolling through what the signs seemed to indicate was Wiltshire. 

 

There had been no luggage to take with them, of course, but the brown haired woman that Sherlock had indicated was the resident computer genius had joined them in the car that collected them from the airport. 

 

Anthea , John reminded himself. Her name was Anthea. She was the sort of woman that John used to drool over. Now he found he wasn't particularly moved aside from a general sort of appreciation for how she looked. 

 

That was... new. It was different. 

 

John stared at her for a moment, just to be sure. Anthea lifted her eyes from her smart-phone and locked gazes with him.

 

Nothing. 

 

Before that would have sent a thrill through him, even if he knew she was out of his league. John rubbed his eyes and glanced up at Sherlock.

 

The different reaction was immediately obvious. 

 

Looking at Sherlock made John feel warm. As though sensing his gaze, Sherlock tightened his grip on John.

 

It felt like a sweet kind of an ache. John glanced back at Anthea and it went away. She was no longer looking at him, engrossed again in the contents of her smart-phone.

 

There was quiet in the back of the car. It wasn't the comfortable sort of quiet that John was used to on a trip with his unit, or even the calm quiet of the cage he'd been in with Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock was beside him, lost in his own thoughts. Mycroft was tucked into another newspaper, and Anthea was busy on her smart-phone. None of them were looking at each other, none of them were talking. It made the car feel much larger than it was. It felt... lonely.

 

There had to be something to say. If he could think a bit more clearly, John was sure that he would know what it was that needed saying. As it was he wanted a glass of water, a cup of tea, and a cup of coffee in quick succession. The three ought to be able to put him enough to rights to broach any sort of intelligent conversation. As none of the three seemed available, John turned his attention out the window. 

 

The car slowed and made a turn. As the sleek black car headed down the carefully maintained drive, John was the only one looking out the window. With the turn of the vehicle, John got a better view of their obvious destination.

 

To put things  very  specifically, the expensive hired car had taken them to a very posh country house in Wiltshire, the sort of thing that John wagered belonged in the National Trust. 

 

With names like  Sherlock and  Mycroft , John figured he really should have guessed as much. Who said a werewolf couldn't be a posh git? Mycroft's polished act started to seem less like the carefully honed facade of a cunning intellect and more like the product of a very public school education, still well polished but somehow less impressive.

 

Whatever else the view made him expect, John had to admit the house was impressive.

 

As the car slowed to park, Sherlock seemed to come back from wherever he had been. The intelligent eyes of his mate barely cast a glance around them before they fixed on his brother. Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. No one was waiting out front, but once the car stopped a sharply dressed man - manservant? John couldn't quite be sure - headed out quickly enough that he must have been waiting.

 

Mycroft folded his newspaper with a precise snap to settle the sections back in their original folds.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes almost audibly, tucking his nose behind John's ear.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"You wanted nice sheets," Sherlock replied softly. "I hope Mummy is worth the thread count."

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft said sharply, a hint of a warning growl in his voice.

 

'Mummy?' John mouthed to himself.

 

Neither of the Holmes brothers offered comment. When the door was opened, Mycroft climbed out first; Anthea followed. Sherlock released John's shoulders with a last sniff of his neck. 

 

All the travel and the lingering dose of pain killers made the awkward nap John had taken useless. He was drowsy and after the empty silence of the ride he felt stiff and awkward before the impressive looking estate. All the wolves left the car without a bit of trouble. John, on the other hand, almost tripped on his way out of the car. 

 

The first full breath of good English air managed to rejuvenate him as he righted himself. He took a second for good measure, stretching his spine from the cramped slouch it had taken in the car. Breathing became a pleasure, and the air tasted clean and clear and  fresh . It was a wonderful change from the recycled air of the plane and the closed in air from the car.

 

It took a full two minutes before he realized that the Holmes brothers were staring at him, waiting. The butler seemed to be discussing something quietly with Anthea and hadn't noticed. John shrugged, murmured a soft apology, and motioned for them to lead the way.

 

Mycroft took the lead again with Anthea, following the butler - John thought that was the proper term for the man, and if not he'd keep thinking it until someone corrected him - up the walk to the thick oak doors. Sherlock captured John's gesturing hand before he followed.

 

The entrance hall of the manor house was impressive. The wood gleamed a warm honey color and looked freshly polished, as did the floor. The tapestries that hung on the walls were clean and dust free, and the fireplace had a cheery fire in it. As they entered, the butler said something softly to Mycroft before heading further into the house. Anthea likewise headed off, making neither apology nor explanation. 

 

John was left with the two brothers. Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to fit into the place with their expertly tailored suits. Even the still-wild fringe of Sherlock's curls were appropriately romantic to fit the period-novel setting they had walked into. John did his best not to stare, either at his mate or the house.

 

As the three of them stood waiting, Sherlock took in the furnishings. "She's been into the attics, again."

 

"A year ago," Mycroft said. "Which you'd know if you bothered to come home."

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

"News of your disappearance was troubling to her, Sherlock," Mycroft chastised. "You couldn't have expected-"

 

"I did not get captured with the intent to  bother any of you," Sherlock grumbled. "I did not enjoy being shot up with tranquilizers and whisked off to Siberia."

 

"A few years ago-"

 

"Only  you would turn being kidnapped into being whisked somewhere," a fond female voice interrupted.

 

John was startled. He hadn't heard any footsteps, but when he turned there was an older looking woman coming into the entryway with the butler following after her. Sherlock released John's hand as she came over.

 

"You horrid, horrid boy," the woman - Mummy Holmes, certainly - said as she reached her son. The pair of them were of a height, though Sherlock had a few inches on her. He slouched to make up the difference as she took him by the jaw and pulled their faces together.

 

Mycroft let out a breath he had seemed to be holding. 

 

This was not the detached reception between the two brothers. Sherlock shifted into the brush of his mother's lips against his cheeks, submitting to the fingers that touched his lengthened hair and drifted across his temples and then down to his cheekbones. There were low words between them, words that John couldn't make out and didn't try to.

 

John generally felt like an interloper on private family business. He was pleased that Mummy Holmes obviously had worried about Sherlock. It banished the sad story that the creative part of John’s mind had started to write about Sherlock’s childhood, one where Sherlock had been lost in such a big house as this with a brother he couldn’t stand. The affection John felt he was intruding on reassured him. It made him second-guess his last conversation with his own mother. John shifted on his feet, looking away at the fireplace to give the pair of them some semblance of privacy.

 

The moment between them didn't last long. The sensation of eyes on him was familiar, but even the scientists hadn't regarded him this strongly. John glanced back at the pair of them, and familiar gray eyes beneath an unfamiliar swoop of salt and pepper hair were staring hard at him.

 

She tilted her head in a way John had seen Sherlock do when he was scenting something. "This is your mate, then," Mummy Holmes said.

 

"Captain John Watson," Mycroft said, at the very same time that Sherlock said, "Doctor John Watson."

 

Mummy Holmes heard them both, and her brows pulled together. She glanced over at Sherlock, and then looked back at John, sniffing again. For a moment she said nothing. 

 

John waited, letting the Holmes matriarch form her own opinion in respectful silence, because his mother had certainly taught him polite enough manners for a situation something like this one. He doubted very much that Catherine Watson had ever an inkling that he'd apply the 'meet the parents' etiquette to a werewolf, but there was enough sense in general manners to supplement what he was coming to learn of wolf manners.

 

"And what is it you prefer, John Watson?"

 

Straightening up, John shrugged. "I'm mostly discharged, ma'am, so it's Doctor."

 

Sherlock's lips tilted in a smile, and he shot Mycroft a glance that was very likely an 'I told you so'. John did his best to ignore it, as the gray eyes of his... 

 

Mother-in-law? Was that how this worked? 

 

Nevermind, now, John, he cautioned himself. 

 

Her gray eyes stayed on him.

 

"Well then, Doctor Watson," Mummy Holmes said, extending a hand to him, "I suppose a welcome is in order."

 

"Just John," he corrected, taking her hand. The shake was firm on both sides, but no crushing grip or exertion of strength. "I'm taken to believe we're... sort of family now."

 

She barked out a laugh at that, breaking into a smile as she released his hand. "We are at that."

 

Then she turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock all but squirmed under the scrutiny, a pleasant affect if John had ever seen one. The butler came back to the doorway, quietly announcing tea, and John was grateful for it.

 

Mummy Holmes reached out and took John by the arm, guiding him further into the house. "Then you must promise me you'll use my name. The boys seem bound and determined to change it to 'mummy' for me. You must call me Elisabeth, John."

 

Mycroft made a mortified noise at that, and John couldn't help but smile.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the American readers out there, and I apologize if you already know this but I spent quite a while confused as hell when I started reading this fandom, public school in the UK seems to be akin to private school in the States. (Or boarding school, I believe.)
> 
> This, of course, caused me no end of confusion at first, because public school in America is absolutely nothing like where someone like Mycroft and Sherlock would have gone. There's a lot of playground fights and big yellow buses. 
> 
> As Eddie Izzard says, we are two countries separated by a common language.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Tea was taken in the library. Like the rest of the house John had seen, it looked old and expensive. The library had tall ceilings and well-polished wood. There was a chandelier hanging in the center of the room, but it had been updated to electrical lighting at some point. Near ceiling-height windows were spaced between slender bookshelves on the outer wall, letting natural light in through sheer curtains. There were several comfortable couches - almost too many couches, actually - around the open space. The well-cared for leather seemed thick and old, and the brown of it went with the thick rug that covered the floor almost from bookcase to bookcase.

 

Elisabeth guided him to a couch with her, and kept up a conversation with him about what sort of doctoring he'd done. John very much doubted that his stint as a trauma surgeon was interesting to her, but she seemed knowledgeable enough to carry on the conversation, and interested in getting to know more about him.

 

Mycroft sat on another couch across from them, listening attentively without adding much to the conversation except the occasional comment about the facilities or the difficulty of the procedure in question. He sounded, perhaps, slightly impressed, but John was unconvinced it was not entirely an act.

 

The conversation felt strange to John, but that might have had to do with the stiff way that Sherlock was sitting and then standing across the room with his eyes averted from the pair of them rather than any unwelcoming sensation from Elisabeth. 

 

When the service came it was not a proper meal, but there were sandwiches and scones and John's stomach demanded some of each. The tea was excellent, the food was delicious, but.

 

But something felt wrong, felt off. It wasn’t the setting, John didn’t feel the least concern about the room. It was open and well-lit and if there was a sinister place in this big house where bad people were taken or disposed of, it certainly wasn’t this. The conversation was polite, Elisabeth and even Mycroft were nonthreatening in posture and speech.

 

The trouble was, John thought, that these weren't even things that he and Sherlock had spoken of. There just hadn't been the time for it with the escape and then the surgery. It felt wrong to be sharing all this with the group of them before Sherlock knew.

 

John disliked it, but there was no way to delay or alter the conversation without blatantly being rude. Elisabeth hadn't given him reason to. She seemed generally pleased to meet him, if a little surprised by it. But there was something that she was doing that wasn’t quite normal. She kept glancing at Sherlock, as though she were searching his posture for the answer to some question, or… something. John couldn’t put his finger on it. For the most part John could ignore it, but after the third time that Elisabeth cast a glance at Sherlock while mentioning something, John couldn’t help himself.

 

"I'm sorry," John interrupted her question, "you seem... surprised."

 

"It's just that Sherlock's always been so disinterested," Elisabeth said, sipping her tea. "I'd never believe it myself to see him with you now, but a year ago he'd be itching to get outside."

 

At the mention of a year prior, Sherlock tensed and Mycroft took what could only be described as an agitated sip of his tea. There was more, there, but John knew enough about secrets and siblings that he wouldn’t ask in the presence of Elisabeth.

 

Elisabeth turned a somewhat forlorn expression on Sherlock’s back and added, “If he could even be convinced to come out here.

 

Sherlock turned his head towards the window he was standing at, muttering something under his breath that both Elisabeth and Mycroft ignored and John couldn't hear.

 

"It has been mentioned," John replied.

 

"By Mycroft, no doubt." Elisabeth patted John's knee in consolation. On the couch across from them, Mycroft frowned and sat up a bit straighter. Before he could protest, she went on, "Mycroft can be a bit short-sighted where his brother is concerned. If Sherlock didn't give us such cause to worry-"

 

"It was once," Sherlock cut in, turning towards them quickly. "Not worth talking about."

 

"You go off on your own entirely too often," Elisabeth said. "You're alone too much, as this proved quite readily." Sherlock started to protest, but Elisabeth spoke right over him. "Enough, Sherlock. You will spend the moon with the rest of the pack."

 

The words sounded rather final, in a way that made John uncomfortable. It was above and beyond a parent ordering a child, it was a command that John could feel the force of.

 

"Have I been clear enough?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock grumbled, sulking and flouncing over to the couch nearest him only to flop down onto it. He tossed his head in annoyance, dark curls flaring with the gesture. 

 

Mycroft radiated smugness, and John hated him a bit for it. 

 

Elisabeth took another sip of her tea, and then set her cup down on its saucer. "Mycroft has expressed some... concerns about the pair of you," Elisabeth said, turning to regard John.

 

John fought the surge of irritation, wondering if he was about to have a similar arguing conversation with Elisabeth Holmes that he felt like he had just finished with Mycroft in Dresden. "I imagine he has," John said, looking over at the wolf in question.

 

"Please, John. I do not mean to be insulting. It is rather late for Sherlock to have taken a mate," Elisabeth said, "so despite the indelicacy in which I am sure he expressed it, the concern is valid."

 

"Rather... late?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock for some clarification.

 

"I'm thirty-three," Sherlock muttered.

 

"Not abnormally late, mind," Elisabeth said, smiling at her younger son, "but the sensation of it will likely be more intense on the pair of you for a while. It's hard to tell what that will entail, given the unique circumstances of your bonding."

 

That… was nothing at all like  the way  Mycroft had been after him, but the intent seemed the same. At least Elisabeth phrased her concern better, and she was referring to John and Sherlock as a unit rather than berating them each separately. That, and she was unbelievably proper about the whole thing. It was hard to work up a proper annoyance when the whole forced incarceration and weeks of highly recreational nudity in solitary confinement were being referred to as ‘unique circumstances’. John wondered if that sort of phrasing was common for the well spoken minority or if Elisabeth was just trying to be kind. John choked back a snicker at the delicate phrasing. Sherlock seemed to share his amusement, and didn't bother to be polite. 

 

"And I understand that there is some difficulty to be sorted out about your return to the country, John," Elisabeth went on with a little smile at the mirth following her last statement. "The two of you will stay here for a few weeks while it's taken care of. Time to settle in to each other."

 

The same commanding tone announced that, and this time even John felt it. He nodded, both because the tone seemed to require some response and because there were worse alternatives. The practical part of John recognized that he had no clothing other than what was on his back, no money that he could access as all his identification was left behind in the hospital months ago, and was officially listed as MIA if not KIA from the hospital he'd been snatched from. Sherlock hadn't stated any particular home to return to - the manor house an obvious exception though not a desirable long-term residence - or any source of ready income. 

 

So John didn't legally exist and his mate was little better. 

 

At least there would be food and a roof over their heads here.

 

John wasn't sure if it should be more disturbing that he was thinking like he was entering some strange extreme survival situation, especially considering how far away from that sort of danger he was, or that he was  calmly considering the start of his London life in fight or flight terms.

 

The rest of tea passed without much incident. Sherlock continued to keep his eyes averted from John, sulking on his couch, and after a while Mycroft excused himself to take a call. Anthea did not appear, and after a bit more idle conversation - Elisabeth was kind enough to explain to John some of the current events he had missed out on - they all adjourned.

 

"I will see you boys for breakfast," Elisabeth concluded as she rose from her spot on the couch with John and followed the maid carrying the tea service out.

 

John started to ask what would be done about dinner, but he felt Sherlock's gaze on him, and the hungry sensation shifted away from his stomach to points decidedly southward. Turning his head halfway, he caught the look on Sherlock’s face.

 

He was surprised at just how  longing  that look was.

 

“Come here,” John instructed, patting the couch beside him.

 

“No,” Sherlock replied. He glanced around the room almost warily. “Not here,” he rose from the couch and held a hand out to John. “Upstairs.”

 

*

 


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, Sherlock’s room was conveniently right where he’d left it on his last visit. Something about Sherlock seemed to relax as they passed into the privacy of his childhood room. Any talk of dinner quickly went the way of John’s too-new clothing, discarded in a pile on the floor. Then it was all hands touching, with fingers sliding and gripping. John barely noticed the room around them as they make it to the bed in a half-stumble. Sherlock was more interesting than the blue room around them, his lips pressing kisses more fascinating than anything the shelves and furniture could hope to offer to his untrained observations.

 

The brief sensation of falling - being tackled, really - ended with a dull impact onto the bed. Sherlock made short work of John’s trousers, and between them John got naked and more clothes found their way to the floor. As Sherlock sat up to strip his shirt off, John couldn’t help but chuckle out, “You must be hell on housekeeping.”

 

“You have no idea,” Sherlock replied, undoing his fly before leaning back down over John, capturing his wrists and drawing them up over his head. “Yet.”

 

“Yet,” John agreed. A warm feeling emanated from his chest at the acknowledgment of them together in the future.

 

Sherlock’s hands tightened on his wrists and his lips took John’s firmly. It had been easy to coax Sherlock into kissing, and though it had not been his first instinct for showing affection, he had quickly taken to the act. John was happy to reciprocate, liking Sherlock’s possessive fervor. John could feel the same urge in himself. Once his wrists were released in favor of further touching, John reached out for his mate, getting his hand into the blatantly _offensive_ pants. The brush of his fingers drew a growl out of Sherlock, and the feel of it in the kiss sent a thrill rushing through John.

 

“Not like this,” Sherlock demanded, planting a hand on the bed and pulling up and out of the kiss. He made no move to stop John’s hand, though.

 

The loss of his kiss was enough to draw a growl out of John. “Then get out of those bloody things,” he demanded.

 

It didn’t take a second request. Sherlock was long-limbed, but somehow manged to insinuate himself free of the fabric confines. In the process of it he stretched himself back out over John, and their lips found each others’ again.

 

The sensation of skin on skin was electrifying. John couldn’t keep his hand occupied with Sherlock’s erection because there was so much more warm skin to touch. They seemed to be of a similar mind about the subject. Sherlock’s hands stroked John’s sides, traced his neck and came up to frame his face before those marvelous lips descended to John’s throat.

 

Heat pressed against heat, and Sherlock was no shy lover. In the weeks in their cage he had proved to be as demanding as he was attentive. Sherlock had focus beyond anything that John had ever seen, and when it was turned to sex, John quickly unraveled. They had been lovers a short time, but even the fiancée that John had failed to make work had not known his body so well.

 

_“Not like this,”_ Sherlock repeated, rolling his hips against John’s. It was almost too much friction, but the source was worth it. “Turn over.”

 

John gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulling them together and drawing a satisfied groan out of the both of them. “You’ll have to be a bit more convincing,” John said, leaning in to press his lips to Sherlock’s throat. “I’m liking this right here.”

 

For a moment Sherlock gave no argument. He pressed his face against John’s neck and rutted them together insistently. When he did things like that John was sure, even in his lust-gone mind, that it was the wolf in his mate that had him trapped and panting.

 

Then Sherlock stilled, and his lips worked their way up John’s neck slowly. The kisses were gentle, and he licked behind John’s ear before murmuring, “You’ll like this _more.”_

 

The low rumble sent a shiver through John, and he’d been hard before but he was straining at that tone from that voice. Sherlock covered John’s hands with his, threading their fingers together to loose John’s hold on his hips. Sherlock’s lips pressed to the corner of his jaw, and then the hollow of his throat, and then their lips met and parted and the only single clear thought that John had was that he had never been kissed quite like this by anyone, ever.

 

Between the two of them, without pulling too much away or getting disentangled from each other, John ended up on his hands and knees, with Sherlock behind him. The length of his mate stretched out against his back had that same electric tingle, and John started to shift so he could find a handhold on Sherlock when slick, questing fingers worked their way up the inside of his thigh. John hadn’t even heard the bottle open.

 

“They'll be talking about you," Sherlock murmured against his spine before licking a stripe up it. Clever fingers were busy elsewhere, pushing in and slipping back out in time with his words. _"Captain Watson."_

 

John moaned, helpless with the pleasure of that touch. Once he got his voice back under his own control, he chuckled, "You seem continuously surprised by that. Like I'm something speci-"

 

A firm press of those clever fingers cut John's words off for him. Sherlock shifted up, leaning against his back to press lips against his ear. "You _are_ special," he growled, fingers twisting exquisitely, "Beautiful, clever, impossibly strong," Sherlock kissed behind his ear lingeringly, and John didn't even fight the renewed moan of pleasure at all the feelings the slick digits were wringing out of him. "My perfect mate."

 

"Sherlock!" John gasped, "I'll-"

 

"Come on then," Sherlock growled. "For me, right now."

 

Grasping the sheets, John complied, losing himself in the pleasure of it, the pleasure of Sherlock's talented fingers and loving touch. A hand moved to help him along, stroking him through the tide of his pleasure, and John whimpered as it subsided and over-sensitive flesh was kept trapped in that sure grip.

 

Sherlock's lips were at his neck, and words were whispered against his skin. "Yes, John, my John. That's it. So good." The endearments huffed across John's damp neck in the puffs of Sherlock's breath.

 

Once John was well past finished, Sherlock slid his fingers free, and John felt the firm press of Sherlock's length into him. He was loose, and wet, and Sherlock slid in easily, like he belonged seated to the hilt in John. The ride was a slow one, with hard thrusts pushing John into the mattress, and the words kept pouring out of Sherlock's lips. How good he was, how hot, how tight he felt. Did he want this? John moaned out a wanton yes in response, unable to hold back as his body struggled to regain its own erection. It was far too soon, of course, medically John knew it, but his body was determined to try, urgent to join the feeling of Sherlock slowly fucking him into the bed beneath them. John would feel this in the morning, and it was so, _so_ worth it.

 

When Sherlock finally lost himself, John went with him, both of them crying out almost together.

 

"That," John chuckled out as Sherlock slumped against him and they both flattened out on the mattress, "was amazing."

 

A confident smirk was John's answer. Sherlock nuzzled his neck.

 

The two of them dozed a bit. Sherlock lay draped mostly across John's back, John shifted enough to get comfortable with one cheek pressed into a pillow. It was warm, and they were close together, and that was really all either of them had come to need over the last weeks.

 

Some time later, John was woken by low words. It wasn't the first time, Sherlock just didn't seem to sleep as much as he did.

 

"They are talking about you because you survived, but that isn't why, John. It makes you a curiosity, it will be an asset if anyone questions why I chose a human, but it has very little to do with the thing," he said, voice sounding entirely too sober and too serious.

 

There was no way that this was pillow talk, which meant Sherlock had been awake and thinking through this for a while. John felt a chill as he realized what Sherlock was referring to.

 

When he shivered, Sherlock shifted onto his side and pulled him closer, leaning in to take a deep inhale of John's scent. "I didn't chose you because you survived," he said, one hand coming up to trace the exit scar on John's shoulder. "I didn't know, John, but _you._ Impossible you," Sherlock breathed him in again. "It could never have been anyone, it could only be you."

 

John's heartbeat stuttered at that. "How do you know that?"

 

"You're not the first I've had to bed," Sherlock said, stroking his side. "And you weren't the first human thrown into my cell."

 

The thought was surprisingly disheartening. John shifted, uncomfortable with the discussion, suddenly. He both wanted and didn't want to know who the other person was, who all the other people were.

 

"The woman barely spoke my language," Sherlock said dismissively.

 

There were places in John’s memory that he didn’t go, things he didn’t think about. But there were triggers that could be tripped, like a Humvee crossing an IED, and apparently Sherlock talking about other people - other lovers or sex partners or-- good lord, John couldn’t _think_ the word _mate_ without suffering a sharp stabbing pain in his chest - was a big one.

 

Sherlock was still talking, but John was back in that re-purposed facility in Siberia. He was kept in a room with a bag over his head for a day - two? There were people speaking at least two languages, some English, but something else. It was Russian, maybe, or… something Slavic that wasn’t Russian at all. There were IVs in him, and rounds of questions. John hadn’t let himself think about the eventual conclusion of his incarceration when it was happening. That wasn’t the time for it, almost like thinking the thought might have somehow made it come true. He had ignored how the incessant questions had multiplied before they trailed off. John was no commando, he had no special training, but he was as stubborn a bastard as any Watson. He didn’t take kindly to being snatched from a hospital, and he decided not to answer their questions, no matter how hard they asked. They asked pretty hard for a while.

 

Eventually they stopped asking entirely.

 

The lead scientist - John realized that though he’d been told the man’s name he couldn’t recall it, just another body on the floor in their wake - had come to him just before the moon. _“You’ve greatly disappointed us, Captain Watson,”_ the man had said, _“but you can still be useful.”_

 

It was hard to hear anything over the memory, the sound of his own breathing, and the throb of his pulse in his ears, but John came back to the blue bedroom when Sherlock’s grip on him tightened.

 

"No, no. I think they thought they'd brought me a snack," Sherlock concluded.

 

"Christ," John muttered, knowing it was true. Knowing that those bastard scientists, those miserable excuses for _doctors_ had expected that for him.

 

They had fully expected Sherlock to do something to him, and it certainly hadn’t been for Sherlock to tongue wash him and then mate with him.

 

"Don’t be absurd. I’m not a _beast,”_ Sherlock said, as though he could read John’s thoughts. “I disappointed them about that. They took her away safe and sound in the morning. She was boring. Nothing at all like you," Sherlock said reassuringly, and licked his ear. "My John," he nuzzled affectionately.

 

John turned all that around in his head. That didn’t answer the other unsettling thoughts of other bodies naked with Sherlock, but it was… it was something. It was unsettling to think of Sherlock with anyone else, but the shock of those thoughts was quieted by the warm arms around him.

 

Then there was that other thing. _In case anyone questions me choosing a human._

 

"Does it happen often?" John asked. "Do wolves mate with humans regularly?"

 

"Only if the human is particularly worthy," Sherlock said, stroking his arm with sticky fingers. "Don't worry about it. It's their fault they can't really see you. Mummy likes you, the others will come around."

 

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are brothers and sisters, and then there are pack siblings. 
> 
> Nothing explained (what little had been) has made Sherlock's pack siblings something John could expect.

Later that morning they changed bandages and showered. John took his time with his shower, pleased at the hot water and more pleased at being clean than he could remember being since the end of his first tour when he thought he’d never get all the sand out of the nooks and crannies of his body. He hadn’t minded, given how he’d gotten so well acquainted with the sand, but it was a glorious thing, being rid of it. That glorious thing paled in comparison to the feeling of this. Steaming water, expensive soap, and just the hint of soreness left from the night before… sunlight and safety. John refused to look too closely at the gift horse’s mouth on this one.

 

Clothes had been brought into the room at some point, and John didn't venture a guess as to how they knew his size. If Mycroft knew enough of his file to know he wasn't entirely discharged, it was a cinch for him to have found out something as mundane as what size trousers he wore, no matter how disturbing the thought of that was. He absolutely refused to think about how the pants had been the right size.

 

Coming out of the bathroom, John found Sherlock finishing putting himself together in front of a mirror that was set into the inside of one of the wardrobe doors. Any thoughts John might have had about investigating the room left his head.

 

Sherlock, apparently, cleaned up well.

 

It was John’s first glimpse of his mate as he would look if left to his own devices, and though it was nothing in comparison to the way that Sherlock looks sans clothing, the fully dressed appearance of his mate was a sight to behold. Sherlock still needed a haircut - John didn’t mind the length of his hair, but Sherlock fussed longer than reason with it in the bathroom and came out with it pushed behind his ears and escaping to twist across his forehead - but in a well-fitted suit and shirt, both in colors that were a bit more considered than the quick acquisitions they had been given before the stop in Dresden…

 

One collar button was open to reveal a triangle of pale skin.

 

Well.

 

Some things ought to be regulated, John thought privately, and told himself to put it on hold because somewhere in this over-sized house there was breakfast.

 

What he’d been brought was an expensive version of something he’d have picked out himself. Weather-appropriate, unassuming - at least until one felt the fabric of the trousers or shirt or the weave of the jumper - and seemingly sturdy. They weren’t colors that John would have put on himself, necessarily, but the bolder color choices did make him look a little more matched to what Sherlock had on.

 

And wasn’t that just? John withheld his snicker at having been color-matched to his mate.

 

“Something funny?” Sherlock asked, finishing arranging himself in the mirror.

 

“We match.”

 

“I thought that blue would look good on you,” Sherlock replied, glancing over at him. “I was right.”

 

“You… picked this out?”

 

“You can’t possibly think I’d leave dressing you to someone else?”

 

“But when-?”

 

“I know your measurements,” Sherlock replied, eyes taking a path down his body appreciatively, “and you spend so much time sleeping that any idiot could place an online order.”

 

“Did I miss-”

 

From a shelf inside the wardrobe, Sherlock picked up a fancy looking mobile and slid it into his pocket. “I haven’t gotten yours yet, I thought we might go together. Breakfast? Your stomach’s been complaining since dawn.”

 

John was left staring, for a moment, before Sherlock made an impatient noise from the hallway. John hurried to catch up. He caught up to Sherlock down the hall, at the top of the staircase. Sherlock lingered there, looking a bit apprehensive. His hands fidgeted with his jacket, straightening it as he looked down to the first floor of the place. He was so focused that he didn’t seem to notice when John caught up to him.

 

“Best to get this over with,” Sherlock announced, forcefully stilling his hands.

 

John caught the one nearest him and threaded their fingers together. “It can’t be so bad, can it?” he asked.

 

Sherlock made a soft noise that wasn’t a word at all, and squeezed his hand.

 

They went down to the dining room together, just like that. From the look Mycroft gave them as they came in and took their places, a look that intensified when Sherlock shifted his chair closer, Sherlock wasn't expected to be anywhere near so affectionate. John resisted the urge to huff in annoyance. It was made easier by the excellent food.

 

Elisabeth sat at the head of the table, and when John politely asked if the house had been in the family long she launched into a discussion of ancestral lineage that was, frankly, impressive. The Holmes had been on the land for generations, and took pride in protecting it. She gave a wry smile at her sons as she concluded with, "Most of us, anyway."

 

"It is a beautiful home," John offered.

 

"My sons are very fond of London, which, I suppose is still a part of the land, though not technically our territory," Elisabeth said, sipping a cup of coffee politely. "I will show you the rest of the grounds after breakfast, John. The others will be here by nightfall."

 

"The others?"

 

"Mummy, is this quite necessary?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Despite the unusual circumstances," Elisabeth said, her voice sharp, "your family will be pleased to meet your mate, Sherlock."

 

There seemed no room for discussion on the matter. Sherlock sulked the rest of the way through breakfast, despite John's attempts to draw him out of it. After breakfast, Elisabeth took John by the arm and they went for a walk out onto the grounds. The fresh air did wonders for John's nervous mood. After the initial standoff, John found Elisabeth's presence companionable. He rather liked her, and he'd only known her a few hours. John couldn't help but ask about Sherlock's reaction to him meeting 'the others'.

 

"He's fiercely independent," Elisabeth said proudly. "It was a terror having the two of them in the house growing up."

 

John chuckled. The rewrite of the story he'd been imaging of Sherlock's childhood took another turn, and now he could see a young Sherlock and a young-er Mycroft tormenting one another and acting much more like siblings.

 

"Growing up in a pack is not quite like growing up in a human family," Elisabeth said, looking out over the garden. "There were six of us, before the children. My husband's sister and her mate, and my brother and his. Mycroft was the first of the children, and he wore it with pride. Then Aldrich, Marianne, Georgiana, Temperance, Horatio, and little Sherlock."

 

Well, that ripped up the story entirely. While John could imagine Sherlock and Mycroft being siblings, it was much harder to picture Sherlock in a pack of them. John decided not to focus on that for the moment.

 

"Little?" John asked, thinking of the long stretch of his mate.

 

"Sometimes I think his height was just to spite the rest of them," Elisabeth chuckled. "It's never mattered to them. His siblings are all very protective of him. They will want to know you are worthy of their little brother."

 

Oh. _Of course._

 

The little stand off with Mycroft came to mind, and John felt a surge of annoyance. John thought he was doing a remarkably good job at withholding his temper. He didn't even roll his eyes, and the sigh never made it past his lips, but he thought them.

 

It was a possessive rush that went along with it, one that John was coming to associate solely with his feelings about Sherlock. John didn't know exactly what made him more annoyed - angry, John, let's be honest with ourselves here - that there might be something wanting in him or that a bunch of strangers, a bunch of strange wolves thought they had some right to pass judgment on him.

 

No, it wasn't that. It was-

 

"More than that, John," Elisabeth said, patting his arm as though she knew what he was thinking, "they need to know your scent. You're part of us now, and we look after our own."

 

Those words struck him. A fuzzy memory from a bloody sandpit came to mind. A slender body dragging a larger one, a barely breathing comrade stubbornly pulled from danger.

 

"I suspected as much," John said, forcing the image from his mind. “Thanks for the warning.”

 

Elisabeth tilted her head as she regarded him, but said nothing in response. That was good, it let John work his blood pressure back down. When he stopped seeing everything with anger-tinted glasses, he figured this was sort of normal in-law behavior, albeit with higher stakes and a shorter period for everyone to adjust. John was joining their family, of course they would have... opinions about it.

 

Dear god, the reverse would certainly be true.

 

They toured the gardens, walked to the top of the nearby hill to look on farther fields with woods that stretched for a great distance, and paused in the greenhouse on their way back to the house. All of the grounds were impressive, of course. They were distant from the nearest neighbor, which had to be convenient for the monthly shift into fangs and fur.

 

John could almost feel the punch to his arm and hear Harry’s raucous laughter as she would, undoubtedly declare that John had _married up._

 

As they headed back down the hill towards the house, John took a moment to consider that he continuously equated this mating… thing with marriage. Elisabeth had carefully reminded him that a wolf pack was not like a normal family, and this might be different too.

 

Elisabeth led the way in through the back door, and their arrival was answered by a warmly bellowed, "Mummy!"

 

A short, barrel chested man engulfed Elisabeth in a firm hug. Beyond the display of open affection, John noticed Sherlock hovering near the doorway into the main hall.

 

One of the other wolves, then.

 

"You are entirely too affectionate for a young man I saw three days ago," Elisabeth protested, but her words were fond. She kissed the shorter wolf on the temple before giving him a gentle shove away.

 

"No one is ever affectionate enough when they see you!" the brown haired wolf replied. "It's a complete scandal, really!"

 

John stepped around the pair of them, heading for Sherlock, only to find the solid-chested wolf stepped into his path. "And this must be Sherlock's mate!"

 

Before John could answer or protest, the same firm hug enveloped him, and the brown haired wolf lifted him just a little, sniffed him - John thought he did, anyway - and then set him back on his feet, extending a hand as he introduced himself with, "Horatio Fairfax."

 

"John Watson," he replied, shaking the man's hand.

 

"You have no idea what a pleasure it is to meet you," Horatio said, a broad grin spreading across his cheeks that made him look far more boyish than he likely had a right to look. He released John's hand as easily as he had taken it.

 

"Probably not," John replied, glancing at Sherlock.

 

His mate seemed more curious than concerned about the introduction, so John took the cue that Horatio was alright. Elisabeth chuckled and patted Sherlock on the arm as she stepped past him, calling for tea.

 

"Ol’ Myc says you're **_the_ ** John Watson," Horatio said, lowering his voice as though sharing some secret, "not that makes a whit of difference on which way the wind blows."

 

"Generally doesn't," John replied. "Hasn't done much aside from get me abducted from a hospital."

 

Horatio laughed aloud at that, turning to Sherlock. "I can see why you like this one," he announced.

 

"It's considerably more than 'liking'," Sherlock said, turning his eyes to John.

 

The look was enough send a shiver down John's spine.

 

"Oy, none of that just now," Horatio said, chuckling, "if you're not here to greet Temperance when she comes in she may stomp straight into your room."

 

"If she did, it would be entirely her fault for what she saw," Sherlock replied, still eying John in a way that suggested they ought to be alone somewhere. John wisely kept his mouth shut, unsure what he might say given the rush of heat that hit him just from the predatory look Sherlock had turned on him.

 

Sherlock seemed to collected himself after a moment and asked Horatio, "Where's Anne?"

 

"Had to pick Connie up from school," Horatio said. "They'll be in by dinner. You can't imagine the nonsense the administration makes about our family emergencies. You'd think by now they'd sorted it, but..." Horatio gave an eloquent shrug.

 

Both Horatio and Sherlock turned to the doorway behind them. John hadn't heard anything, but he knew his ears weren't the best suited in the room.

 

"Georgiana?" Horatio said.

 

"Temperance," Sherlock replied.

 

"Best ears among us," Horatio said, nudging John in the arm with his elbow.

 

"Quite the contrary," Sherlock replied, "I just listen before I speak."

 

That set Horatio chuckling again, and with a shake of his head the brown-haired wolf headed out into the hall. For a moment, John stood alone with Sherlock. "Who's Anne?"

 

"Horatio's mate," Sherlock replied.

 

"More than twelve, then."

 

Sherlock smiled slyly at John. "There _are_ twelve of us. Also twelve mates, now," Sherlock gave John a fond gaze before going on, "and several children. It's not my fault the question was imprecise."

 

"Which of us is clever?" John asked, grinning back.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jerked his head towards the hallway. "Better to get this over with before she comes looking."

 

Unlike Horatio, Temperance was tall, looking more in the style of Sherlock himself, and a golden blond. She stood beside a broad shouldered man, John assumed this to be her mate, just as tall and blond as she was. When John followed Sherlock into the main hall she looked directly at John with a calculating look on her face before stepping past Elisabeth towards them.

 

"Temperance," Sherlock greeted neutrally.

 

"Sherlock," she replied smoothly. "And this will be your John?" As she said it she narrowed her eyes, taking him in.

 

John was starting to think that every meeting with a werewolf from Sherlock's pack was going to involve being sized up like a piece of meat. He held a hand out to her, "John Watson," he said by way of introduction.

 

"Temperance Weatherby," she replied, gripping his hand.

 

Then she pulled it up and sniffed at his wrist.

 

That meant... Horatio _had_ sniffed him before. Elisabeth's words from breakfast came back. A quick glance at Sherlock told John that it wasn't unreasonable, but it did make John wish he'd taken a slightly more thorough shower.

 

If Temperance had any sort of comment, it was lost when the blond man stepped over. John's hand was taken from her and a pointed sniff was given. "Charles," the man said, eying John a moment before turning to his mate. "I thought he'd be younger. Or taller."

 

"Not younger or taller," John said, taking his hand back from Charles. "But Sherlock doesn't seem to mind either."

 

"Don't mind him, John. Charles is used to being everybody's favorite," Sherlock said.

 

Horatio huffed from off to the side. "Missed that one."

 

Charles's shoulders tensed, and Temperance pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes at her pack mates. The pair of them seemed almost ready to launch themselves at Sherlock and Horatio.

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," John said, trying a hand at soothing the lot of them. It wasn't the first time he'd had his height pointed out to him, and he doubted it would be the last.

 

"That's more manners than I expected," Temperance said, smiling wryly at Sherlock, "given he's your mate."

 

"Shall we have it out now, then?" Sherlock replied, sounding bored. "You and I don't have such different taste, obviously."

 

Temperance's expression cracked into a smile that led to a chuckle. Charles gave John a second look and then frowned, obviously not finding anything worth commenting on when it came to similarities. Beyond that they were blond, John didn't either, but he was amused by the discomfort it caused the posh looking man.

 

Elisabeth cleared her throat, and when they all turned to her she gestured towards the library again, "Tea. If the four of you can manage not to squabble entirely over John's attention."

 

Horatio chuckled, but Temperance sputtered at the accusation. Sherlock didn't bother replying. He took John's hand and led him into the library.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I dearly love Sherlock's little joke about he and Temperance having the same type. 
> 
> I am not overly fond of Charles, but that doesn't mean there's not plenty to love about him. To every wolf, a purpose.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we at last happen upon Sherlock's father.

It turned out that Horatio was an engineer. His wife Anne, John was told, was in education. They lived in Swindon, and Horatio was pleased to report that though Sherlock had never done particularly “well” with university - a fact offered complete with quotation marks, a fact that Sherlock snorted about, and made John curious - he was often a house guest when he felt the need to make use of his old oath on Broad Street. It only took John a few moments of puzzling before Sherlock muttered something about antiquated policies of pompous establishments purporting to teach. Then Horatio, who had cottoned on to John’s confusion, said that it was the Bodleian that Sherlock really liked to visit. John found himself quite amused to think of Sherlock making the trek from London to Swindon just to go to the library.

 

“Is it that you don’t like the libraries in London?” John asked Sherlock.

 

“Sometimes a specific _location_ is required for appropriate thought processes,” Sherlock replied, sipping his tea.

 

“Which means, in shorthand,” Horatio added helpfully, “that he likes the place there better. It’s one of the few things he prefers outside of his London.”

 

John didn’t offer comment because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the information about Sherlock’s preferences second-hand from Horatio.

 

Temperance was an accountant. Charles worked in information technology in Bristol. Charles gave no further comment on that, but from the shifting of Mycroft did in his seat with his teacup, John was fairly certain that the two had known each other before Temperance had chosen her mate.

 

There was no amusing commentary from either of them regarding Sherlock visiting them for obscure research reasons.

 

When Sherlock caught John puzzling over that, he said, “Of course not, John. Whatever would I need to visit Bristol for?”

 

Temperance gritted her teeth. “You might visit,” she said.

 

“Oh. Of course. At which point would those visits cease to involve ‘convenient’ dinners with your single coworkers?”

 

“You make looking after you such a chore, Sherlock,” Temperance sighed. She looked at John. “You will come and visit, won’t you?”

 

“Uh…” John stalled, puzzled at the attention she had turned on him. He found that Charles was also looking at him expectantly. “We… haven’t even really been to London yet, so I can’t say…”

 

“Don’t try it,” Sherlock said crisply. “John isn’t a weak spot you can exploit.”

 

From the look on Temperance’s face, she didn’t believe it. John knew she was wrong, but he knew a thing or two about appeasing hard to please siblings, so he sipped his tea and kept quiet.

 

The course of tea involved both Georgiana and Marianne arriving. Both were Temperance's elder sisters, made obvious from their open affection for her as well as their similar statures. Mycroft greeted his cousins with obvious pleasure, and as the pack began to fill the room, John began to notice similarities between them that went beyond physical traits. Their mannerisms were all similar. There was a stillness about them when they were watching and listening that mirrored Sherlock's, though John's mate had a rather singular focus to his attention that even his relations could not match.

 

Georgiana's mate was was a female werewolf by the name of Durga, who looked to be from India and had an accent to go along with it. She looked oddly familiar, but John couldn't place her. She was as friendly as Horatio, with an easy smile and a tendency to play peacemaker. They also lived in Bristol, and apparently Georgiana was a bank manager. Durga was in communications. Again, John got the impression that she had been an acquaintance of Mycroft’s.

 

That made two, so far.

 

Marriane's mate was a tall human named Gerard. He was starting to bald and wore a pair of glasses that made him look old, John thought. He smiled easily enough, but kept rather quiet. They lived in Bath. Marriane worked in software, and Gerard was an executive for a publishing company.

 

That at least oughtn’t to have been set up by Mycroft, John thought. John tried, very hard, not to imagine that there were mixers in which eligible, well-to-do wolves mingled with suitable matches. It was a fact made harder by where he was being introduced to the family. But then there was Mycroft’s obvious connection to at least two of the spouses. John wondered how many times Mycroft had pulled the Emma Woodhouse routine, and cursed Harry for inflicted summer reading program choices when they were kids.

 

It was obvious once the others arrived how fond Temperance actually was of Sherlock. John could care a fig for Charles, but when the newcomers arrived and the seating was rearranged, Temperance sat closest to Sherlock.

 

Once the introductions were out of the way, they all settled down and got to catching up, and just like any large human family John had ever visited there were stories to tell back and forth and several children to settle down out of the way.

 

Suddenly the number of couches in the library made sense. As the rest of Sherlock’s pack began to fill the room, it became obvious that the seating was by no means in excess. The number of wolves around ought to have been strange, but John didn’t quite find it so. He kept - or was kept, he couldn’t tell whether he was doing it or Sherlock himself - at Sherlock’s side on the couch with Temperance. Temperance seemed more relaxed, now, but there was little that John found he could add to the conversation the siblings were having. It mostly involved the absent children.

 

John did his best to keep his head from spinning as he listened. Temperance and Charles had been the first of the second generation to have a child, and beyond that John found himself confused at the logistics and chronology of it all. In the midst of his confusion, Sherlock took his hand and shifted slightly closer to him on the couch. They didn’t share a look, even John thought that would have been far too obvious, but Sherlock obviously understood what sort of a bee hive it was being put in the center of the room like this.

 

The tea was settled away as the afternoon turned towards evening, and two sets of austere looking persons were brought in to join them. The room had seemed quite full by the time Emeric Lachance and his mate Daphne came in with Adrien and Viola Fairfax joined them.

 

The stories passed around back and forth turned to 'when they were children'. That was about the point when Sherlock left the couch to stand apart from the others, leaving John seated among them.

 

John could understand the urge, there were enough people that the conversation was almost smothering. He wanted to join Sherlock, but even though he was not very active in the conversation, every time he started to get up someone asked John a question and made it only polite to remain seated to give the answer.

 

It was like they were trying to teach John something with all their stories.

 

Doing a head-count based on Sherlock’s information, John thought that there were only a few absent persons. He was pleased to be done with the majority of the handshaking and sniffing that had to be gotten on with. Aldrich… whatever his last name was, and his mate, and Sherlock’s father. John couldn't quite think of a polite way to ask after them. The stories were more being told to him more than it was a conversation of any sort.

 

Just as John’s stomach was starting to question when there might be food returning to the equation, arguing could be heard from the hall.

 

"It's bit late for arguments, Aldrich. I simply won't hear them," the older of the two said as the two of them came into the library, shrugging coats off that the butler took from them.

 

This must be Sherlock’s father, then — tall as his sons, with a thick shock of white hair and an immaculate suit. It was obvious which of the boys took after which parent. Sherlock looked his father’s son, with the same riotous curls, sharp cheekbones, and strong brow.

 

The conversation in the library faded. John was not the only one watching as the latecomers made their way in.

 

"Uncle, you don't understand," Aldrich insisted, shaking his head. He did not have his uncle’s towering stature, but was at least as tall as Mycroft. "Now certainly isn't the time to gather us all in one place, even for something like this."

 

Behind the two of them came a beautiful woman who had a baby in one arm and a young lad following behind her. Elisabeth rose from her seat, ignoring the two men to step over and greet the woman - Joscelin, John overheard.

 

The elder Holmes turned and fixed Aldrich with a stare that stopped the younger wolf in his tracks. "You obviously misunderstood the part where I said I would not hear your arguments," he growled.

 

Cowed thoroughly, Aldrich dropped his eyes and tilted his head to the side in a gesture of surrender. He didn't lift his gaze until the elder Holmes turned away, and then his eyes fixed instantly on first John and then Sherlock. Even from across the space between them, John could feel Sherlock straighten up under the scrutiny.

 

"There now," the elder Holmes said, smoothing his temper and his appearance at the same time. "It ought to be just about time for dinner."

 

There were murmurs of agreement. John had heard not a few stomachs complaining as the afternoon wore on, but there was not a single word spoken aloud. Sherlock’s father stepped across the library, the other wolves moving out of his way as he came to the couch where John sat. Sherlock stepped over, and John rose to stand at his side.

 

"Sir," Sherlock said, voice a tangle of thick emotion as he said the short syllable.

 

Whatever else there was to say, the elder Holmes ignored. He took Sherlock by the shoulders, pulled him close, and closed his eyes as he bumped his cheek against his son's. Sherlock let out a barely audible sigh, and sank into his father's grip. They stood like that for a long moment before the elder Holmes pushed his son to arms' length and shook him thoroughly. "Never again, Sherlock."

 

"My circumstances are a bit different now, sir," he replied.

 

The simple statement drew the elder man's eyes back to John, and John was grateful for the military training that had him straightening his spine and standing more firmly. The old wolf's eyes were bright from within the wrinkles around them, harsh and calculating even more so than Mycroft's.

 

"So this is our John Watson, then," he said, releasing Sherlock to extend a hand to John. “Rawden Holmes.”

 

Despite the towering height of the man, John could not feel any attempt at intimidation as he had with some of the other introductions. The grip of his handshake was warm, and the calculating gaze was almost relaxed. The phrasing had helped, too. Rawden Holmes had said 'our' in reference to John, rather than the constant reminder from the younger wolves that John was Sherlock's John.

 

John grasped Rawden’s hand. They shook, and then a firm hand gripped John by the shoulder. Rawden pulled John close, nose sniffing his neck in the familiar way he'd experienced all day from the pack. A very low voice rumbled to him, "Be good to my son."

 

And then he was released.

 

The rush of it might have sent him reeling, but Sherlock was there beside him. Long fingers reached out to catch his elbow as the older wolf turned and led the whole group to the dinning room.

 

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner drinks in the library.
> 
> John is not amused.

The meal was remarkably uneventful. Elisabeth and Rawden presided over the table, possibly because it was their house but to John it felt like something more. This felt like their pack, all the siblings and children were somehow theirs, as though without their foundation there was no pack.

 

John was too interested in the meal on his plate to pay too much attention to the conversation. Despite Aldrich’s objecting entry speech, there was no mention of anything more serious than some politics that John couldn’t place because he had been out of the loop for so long. The conversation was largely forgettable.

 

It was after dinner before John was properly introduced to Aldrich and Joscelin, with the hand shakes and the pointed sniffing. Their names were easy to recall, though the ones that came before them were beginning to fade into the press of bodies that were present. Aldrich remained taciturn, greeting John almost unwillingly, though his mate was as warm as the others. The pair of them seemed wary, and Sherlock’s reaction was just as stand-offish.

 

There were drinks in the library for those that were wanting to stay up. All the middle generation, siblings and mates included, decided to. Sherlock followed them in, so John went along as well. Again the quantity of couches made sense, the worn-in old leather was meant for wolves to sit upon. John was given the impression that the pack would all be in residence at the manor that evening, which might have been problematic in a smaller house, but there was more than enough room for them. It didn’t prevent squabbling among the middle generation, though. Sherlock kept John in sight despite engaging in a heated discussion with Temperance and Marianne about what they ought not be trying to say about him.

 

Because all of the siblings had stories to tell.

 

Do you remember that time we all got grounded? Sherlock nearly hung himself with the curtains trying to make his escape!

 

And the broken window? Sherlock had been swashbuckling in the library, tripped over his own feet - that’s what he gets for being so bloody tall! - and thrust his sword arm through one of the panes of the tall windows. The rest of him had tumbled after.

 

The first time Sherlock had gotten into the liquor cabinet he’d actually turned green before he’d lost the contents of his stomach in a disobliged linen closet.

 

When Sherlock tried to drive the car.

 

When Sherlock tore out every rose in the garden.

 

Each of the six separate times that he verbally eviscerated his housemaster at Eton in the two years before the man was switched out.

 

The abrupt departure from Oxford.

 

Each of the stories poked at John like a jab to a bruise. Each of these people - wolves? _People_ , John decided - had known Sherlock for years. Each of them had a story about how Sherlock acted, things he had done, what he liked and what he hated. Amid the drinks that were handed about and in the evening light of the library, they seemed to be conversing specifically about Sherlock rather than other things. The rational part of John’s brain knew that Sherlock was the only thing he had instantly in common with them, and common ground was a good place to start a conversation, but whatever part of him was mated to Sherlock was anything but rational. Mycroft’s challenge in Dresden, Sherlock’s warning upstairs, Elisabeth’s surprise at meeting him, the chip on Charles’s shoulder, Aldrich’s paranoia… all of his closer interactions prepared him to be wary of this new family he was being introduced to, and the common ground just seemed like they were flaunting their knowledge of Sherlock to the newcomer.

 

Rather than do or say anything untoward, John found a seat on one of the couches and tried not to think about his reaction to them, or the sheer number of relations he seemed to have gained. The wolves were all vibrant and outspoken, and _en masse_ as they were the sensation of it was overwhelming.

 

Gerard took the open seat on the couch, and handed John a glass.

 

“What’s this then?” John asked, sniffing the whiskey curiously. He offered Gerard a smile, hoping to encourage some conversation with the only other human present. As Gerard was mated in there was the possibility of the topic not being about Sherlock.

 

“The Holmeses are afficionados,” Gerard said. “It helps ease the tension when there’s so many of them in one place.”

 

“The tension?” John asked.

 

As though in answer to his question, Charles shoved Horatio. It seemed good natured enough, but Anne let out a telling growl at the act. Temperance snorted and rolled her eyes at the three of them, continuing her discussion without missing a beat.

 

“I suppose they are rather... lively.”

 

Gerard offered back the smile John had given him, warm and friendly. “They’re a good lot,” he said, nodding and sipping his own glass. “But they get more physical with one another when any of them have been away for any time.”

 

John nodded as well, content to sip the whiskey he’d been given. The age of it must be plentiful, he thought, from the taste of it.

 

“They get a bit more lively when they’re worried,” Gerard said in a lower voice.

 

“Worried?”

 

“Mycroft was rather firm about not letting the rest lend a hand," Gerard said in the same soft voice. Nothing, of course, was going to be low enough to avoid the wolves’ hearing, but the attempt at a little privacy was obvious, and none of the wolves turned to regard either of them. “But they were all in rather a state to hear he’d been taken.”

 

“I don’t expect they should be anything else,” John said, “he’s their family.”

 

The two fell silent at that. The conversation lowered around them, just a bit, and John got the impression that the conversation with the only other human of the pack was planned. He wondered why Gerard had been sent to talk to him. He scowled into his glass at the thought of it.

 

“I seem to have upset you,” Gerard said, swirling the whiskey in his glass and averting his eyes. “Allow me to apologize.”

 

“This is a bit much,” John said, leaning forward to set the glass on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pushed up to his feet. “I’ll just go on to bed. I’m sure I’ll see you again at breakfast.”

 

John wasn’t sure he even knew the way to the correct room, but if he stayed one more minute listening to gentle leading questions or the stories about his mate from the new load of in-laws, he was going to get into a fight with someone.

 

The whole day they had been half-challenges and standoffs, and John had been suppressing his temper because he had absolutely no idea how to approach the situation. Sherlock hadn’t even mentioned what he might expect. His reaction felt stupid and childish. John was glad to meet them, glad to find that Sherlock wasn’t alone in the world, but he absolutely hated being handled like he was a child or worse, that he was made of glass.

 

It made all Sherlock’s nice words about how strong he was feel empty, and it echoed the last conversation with the base doctor who had told him that once he’d recovered he’d be discharged back home.

 

Wrapped up in his thoughts, John barely heard the commotion behind him. Halfway to the front stairs he was aware of Sherlock following behind him.

 

“John.”

 

“Do _not_ ask me to go back in there, because I won’t,” John replied.

 

“You’re angry.”

 

“Yes, I am,” John retorted, “good on you for noticing.”

 

Sherlock reached forward and stopped John as he got a foot on the stairs. A strong, warm hand fell on his shoulder, and a feeling of relief spread through John with it. How many hours since his mate had touched him?

 

“There are a lot of them,” Sherlock said, stepping closer when John didn't step away. “You have a smaller family.”

 

“Considerably,” John grumbled, not really wanting to get into that on top of everything else.

 

“There’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” Sherlock said, shifting forward until John’s back was against his chest. “You said that, in the cage.”

 

“It’s true,” John agreed. Sherlock took both his shoulders, and put his nose into John's hair. “But I want to hear it from you, not in gossip from your squabbling siblings or your mother.”

 

Sherlock nodded, pushing John forward without releasing his shoulders.

 

There were eyes watching them quietly, John knew. He was certain that if he turned back he’d see a face or two in the doorway, so he didn’t look back. He let Sherlock bully him up the stairs to their room, and strip him out of his clothes. The bed had excellent sheets, which John was grateful for, and Sherlock pulled him close and stroked his skin contentedly. It was reassuring, being held close as though he were a precious thing.

 

Then Sherlock started to talk.

 

It was sort of like a chronology of events, one that started with the first thing Sherlock remembered - being scolded for tearing through the roses after an argument with Mycroft. Sherlock explained each of the stories that had been brandished in the library, without the tattle-tale edge that the siblings had been using. John knew he was prejudiced towards his mate, but he couldn’t help thinking that the pirating escapades were adorable and enviable rather than anything he ought to have been punished for. The timeline carried on across the loping hills of Sherlock’s childhood. John got the sense that they were rather boring once Sherlock got a bit older, just as Eton had been boring, and Oxford nearly insufferable, with what seemed to be very few exceptions. Sherlock confirmed it by telling him of the first time he saw London.  
 

Sherlock loved London. It was impossible to miss the vivid way he described the streets and scents of the sprawling metropolis. John was almost jealous of hearing Sherlock speak that way about it, but a firm grope and a lingering snog settled him a bit, and then Sherlock’s excited, “I cannot wait to have you in London, John,” was enough to set any jealousy to rest.

 

London was, by Sherlock’s telling, a living thing. It was big and roiling and dark and light all at the same time. It was a thousand thousands of heartbeats and rolling mist and rain. It was perfect to Sherlock, a wild thing any wolf ought to love.

 

The telling took the late hours and made them early. John grew sleepy, and Sherlock let him rest, stroking his hair to help him nod off without asking him to reciprocate.

 

*


	8. Chapter 8

Morning came too early. 

 

The sun shone glaringly through the windows, as there had been no cause to pull them shut the night before, and Sherlock’s bare skin was radiant in the light. Sherlock, of course, had not slept nearly as much as John had, and once John had a full moment to admire his mate - much more like a cat than a wolf in that regard, John thought to himself - Sherlock pounced. It was a fairly impressive feat, as neither of them left the bed, but the swift shift of positions that pinned John beneath the long stretch of his mate could be called nothing else.

 

“Hello,” John said, grinning.

 

“Good morning,” Sherlock corrected, an equal smile on his lips. Lips that descended onto John’s in a heated kiss as he shifted, lining their hips up properly.

 

If waking up with Sherlock meant waking up like this, John would take it.

 

He felt warm and aroused and - dare he think it? they had said nothing of such things - loved. As Sherlock ground them together the arousal won out as the dominant feeling.

 

Horatio had warned Sherlock the prior afternoon that Temperance might march into his room if he did not present himself, and Sherlock was just sliding into John when that pronouncement came true. The door banged open and Temperance strutted in, "Breakfast," she grumbled. "We're all waiting on the two of you."

 

"Bit busy," Sherlock huffed, stretching out across John's back possessively to glare at his pack-sister.

 

Temperance rolled her eyes. "Hurry up then."

 

At least she left them alone afterward. John pushed his face into the pillow beneath him and smothered the scream that threatened. 

 

Until Sherlock got back to it, and then the door being slightly ajar did nothing to muffle his moans to the rest of the house. As Sherlock nudged John into the shower, the wolf offered the practical consideration that at least none of the others would argue about why they were late.

 

They didn't, but there were knowing smiles on several faces at the table when they came into the dining room. John hid his blush by yawning, and followed Sherlock to their seats.

 

Elisabeth lead the conversation, just as she had before her mate came home. Rawden sat quietly for the most part, his calculating gaze crossed John and Sherlock a moment before settling on Elisabeth and softening. The breakfast conversation was polite, the children introduced as they had not been the evening before. Then the youngest of them were sent to play. Once it was only the adults around the table, Rawden stood.

 

"Now for the unpleasant conversation."

 

John wondered if this would be good or bad. The topic could only be one of two, and he hoped desperately that it would be the one about Siberia and not the one about Afghanistan. Thankfully Rawden's attention settled on Sherlock.

 

"You will indicate the area you were taken to your brother. If someone is hunting us, it is more than just our concern." Then those pale eyes found John. "As I am aware you were not captured together, John Watson, we will need to know the particulars of your abduction as well. I assume you did not go willingly?"

 

"A bit hard to give consent while on heavy medication," John replied, "and what they wanted from me was nothing I would ever willingly sign on for."

 

"What did they want from you?" the question came from Mycroft, whose eyes were keen as they regarded him from across the table.

 

"They seemed to think I knew something, because of... what had happened to me. That I had knowledge of your kind." All the eyes at the table were on John as he spoke. "I wasn't very cooperative."

 

"They threw you in with me to force your hand," Sherlock said, puzzling through the particulars on his own. "They thought your reactions to me would give you away, give them some sort of knowledge I wouldn't provide them." It was astounding how well Sherlock saw what John hadn’t said. Sherlock's voice went fond as he added, "They must have been furious with you."

 

"In the end I probably gave them a bit of something more than what they'd asked for, they were mostly pleasant after that."

 

The triumphant light that had come to Sherlock’s eyes at his successful conclusions died quickly. He looked away, and added in a soft voice, "Mostly." 

 

It wasn't Sherlock's fault, none of it was, and John wasn't going to let him think it for a single moment. He hated having this conversation in front of the lot of them, but he wouldn't put it off. John reached over to take Sherlock's hand. "That wasn't your fault."

 

Sherlock made a dismissive noise, but his fingers threaded into John's grip, tightening.

 

Rawden Holmes seemed to come to some conclusion, but John was not paying attention to the elder wolf to notice it. What was important to John was Sherlock, and how he still wouldn't meet John's eyes.

 

Ignoring the rest of the table, ignoring the other wolves, John reached over and gripped Sherlock’s chin, turning his head until he could get him to turn his face around. Before Sherlock could pull away, John cupped Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands and leaned their foreheads together, pressing brows and noses against each other’s.

 

"John-"

 

"Sherlock," John grunted, pressing fingers into Sherlock’s cheekbones and closing his eyes. "I mean it, no. Not your fault, at all. You don't get to have that."

 

Silence answered him, and then an affronted snort. "I should have-"

 

"No, Sherlock," John persisted.

 

"Don't be absurd, John, honestly-"

 

"No!" John opened his eyes, glaring into Sherlock's, because even upset he couldn't help wanting to see his mate. The gray was surprised and confused. "Just... no, Sherlock," John said, not sure how to convince the man or the wolf that it was alright, that surviving was enough success that the wonder of both of them making it should-

 

Long-fingers thread through his, and Sherlock gently tugged at his hands, shifting to kiss his forehead. "Alright, John."

 

And that was a relief that John was unwilling to admit. He nodded, just a little.

 

"Good," Sherlock replied, kissing him again before releasing him.

 

The rest of the room came back, then. The wolves around the table, Rawden standing at his chair with a bemused annoyance written in the lines of his face. “Breakfast first,” the tall man announced. “Then, the study.”

 

The others made varying noises of agreement. A quick glance showed generally approving looks being cast in John’s direction, certainly the elder generation was all soft, fond smiles for him. As for the children… Horatio was nodding, nudging his elbow into Georgiana’s in a conspiratory fashion. Charles wore a surprised expression, Temperance’s look was more appraising. Marianne had taken Gerard’s hand and was running a thumb across his knuckles. Anthea waited for John’s gaze to reach her and then gave a short nod to him. Mycroft’s lips quirked in a little smile. Joscelin blushed - John was fairly certain it was at the rather public display of affection, she was a quiet sort and that might ruffle her feathers a bit - and even Aldrich inclined his head in John’s direction. In ones and twos their attention returned to the meal and the gentler discussion from prior to Rawden’s announcement. 

 

The meal was good, but it passed quickly with the looming appointment that followed it.

 

John wasn’t sure what to expect of the meeting, but it wasn’t the room he followed Sherlock into after breakfast. The study was a much smaller room than the library. Not all of the wolves joined them. Rawden, of course, and Mycroft and Anthea. Less expected were Aldrich, Marianne, Durga, and Charles. John had to wonder at that, why the whole pack was not involved in a discussion like this one seemed to be, but Sherlock gave a very subtle shake of his head when John made to ask about it.

 

Unsure how his mate could read his thoughts, John followed the subtle hint anyway.

 

Anthea went straight to the desk that sat before the fireplace and worked at a laptop that she took out of one of the drawers. Mycroft stepped over to join her, bending to speak in a voice that only she could hear. Rawden stepped over to the wall opposite the desk and slid back a panel that was set between the bookshelves, revealing a flatscreen monitor that was set into the wall. There were no windows in the study, and with all the turns of the hallways it was hard to tell which wall it was. 

 

Aldrich moved over to the switches on the wall and the lights dimmed as the monitor turned on, bathing the room and its occupants in the blue-white glow of technology instead of the amber from the lightbulbs.

 

“Where were you?” Mycroft asked.

 

“Dartmoor,” Sherlock replied, propping himself up against one of the two chairs in the room.

 

“Had to get farther away than the Downs, then?” Charles quipped.

 

“The point in running alone,” Sherlock said in a cross sounding tone, “is to be  alone . If I wanted to run with the rest of you, I would have gone to the Downs.”

 

“Boys,” Marianne said with a pointed frown. 

 

John edged around the room, picking his way carefully through the dimness. He was unsure what good he would be to the conversation, but curious enough about how Sherlock had been taken to keep close. The soldier in him wanted to prevent it from happening again, as Sherlock did not seem the sort to spend every moon with his family.

 

“Which region?” Mycroft asked, straightening up behind where Anthea sat at the computer.

 

“Past Woodland Wood,” Sherlock replied. “Along the river.”

 

The map on the screen reoriented itself, and John watched a very accurate looking satellite image present itself for their viewing.

 

“Take us back to the moon,” Rawden said, leaning against the front of the heavy wooden desk. The others arrayed themselves to either side of him, in easy view of the screen.

 

The image rewound itself, the light passing away into a darker coloring of the map as night fell on the moors. Sherlock shifted, glancing back at John and then to the chair he was standing beside. Subtlety, John thought, was not one of his mate’s qualities. He took the seat and Sherlock settled down properly on the arm of it, hand finding its way to the back of John’s neck.

 

“The area was sprayed down with peppermint,” Sherlock said, fingers moving idly in John’s hair. “Tranquilizer shot came from a covered location, not easy to find at that time of year. Angle of the shot would make it from above me. Look for a rise in the river or an open area near a small cluster of trees.”

 

“There,” Aldrich said, pointing a finger at the screen abruptly.

 

A group of dark shapes settled something black down near the water. The figures disappeared into the trees. The figure went from slumped over to still and upright. The head moved back and forth and then the whole creature retreated into the trees. It had to be Sherlock. 

 

“The abduction,” Mycroft said. “Play it forward.”

 

The image paused and then began to play. In more normal time it happened again. Sherlock emerged from the tree line, checked the directions carefully, and bent to the river. He stiffened, slumped over, and a group of darkly dressed figures came out of the area, surrounding the little black dot that was Sherlock. He was trussed, bundled up, and taken out of the little clearing.

 

John felt something twist inside of him to watch it happen, but Sherlock’s fingers against his scalp calmed the worst of it.

 

Anthea typed more quickly on the laptop. The best John could figure she was running some sort of calibration of the software, as the image was a recording. The other wolves took a step closer to the screen. Marianne folded her arms on her chest, tipping forward slightly. The shorter Durga stood to her side, head tipped sideways a bit.

 

“That’s the Tavy, isn’t it?” Marianne asked.

 

“Seems like,” Charles replied. “Willsworthy should be this,” he gestured towards the screen.

 

“There’s the collection,” Aldrich said, a scowl obvious in his voice even with his back to John.

 

“Take us back to earlier. Before moonrise,” Rawden said. “If the area was bombed with scent it couldn’t have happened too much earlier.”

 

The image began to backtrack again. The abduction went in reverse. The unsettled feeling inside John reared up again, only to be partly subdued by the soothing touch of his mate. The figures returning to the trees, and the black figure of Sherlock retreated into the shadows of the night. Other animals moved through the frame, small dashes of color that could be anything. 

 

They reached sunset, and shortly before that there were the dark clothed figures moving through the brush at the edge of the river, and the pass over of a helicopter.

 

The video paused, and it moved forward again.

 

The wolves all seemed to be taking in some detail about the video, even Sherlock. John couldn’t see the screen too well through the bodies, and his stomach was tense and unhappy. That was odd, breakfast hadn’t been too long ago. Normally his stomach stayed settled for hours after a meal.

 

Sherlock’s fingers stroked his scalp gently, and his stomach settled down some.

 

“Capturing stills,” Anthea said from the desk, her fingers still flying across the keyboard. 

 

“Charles?” Mycroft asked.

 

“I’ll look into clearing up the feed, we’ll be able to identify the helicopter make and model by morning.”

 

“Remote communications in that area are spotty,” Durga said, “they could have been using a short wave digital transmitter. Usually the communications servers log that sort of information through the cellular terminals. Mostly short-term storage, but I’ll see what we’ve got.”

 

“No distinguishing markings that I can tell, though with the video cleared up a bit the design of the utility uniforms will be more apparent,” Aldrich said. “It’ll be a dead end, but if we get enough threads maybe we’ll be able to pull something together properly.”

 

“I’ll see if we can get anything on facial recognition,” Marianne said in a distracted voice. “They aren’t being exactly discrete about their involvement.”

 

Mycroft made an agreeing noise.

 

“Captures complete,” Anthea said. She took out her mobile and made a soft noise. “We really have to be back in the city,” she added.

 

Rawden frowned, folding his arms on his chest. “We won’t solve this today.”

 

“We’ve certainly made some headway on it, father,” Mycroft said.

 

It was the first time that John heard Mycroft directly address the older wolf, and he was surprised at how respectful Mycroft sound when he spoke. 

 

Rawden nodded once, sharply. He rose from the desk and headed out of the room, head bowed thoughtfully.

 

The others followed after, Charles and Durga both having picked up their mobiles to place calls. John and Sherlock were left with Mycroft and Anthea in the study.

 

“What is it that you do, Mycroft?” John asked.

 

“I occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft replied. He turned to regard John with his usual serene smile fixed on his lips. Behind him the screen went dark.

 

“He means that he  is the British government,” Sherlock replied, snorting softly. His hand fell away from it’s caress of the back of John’s head. “At least when he’s not being MI6 or freelancing as the CIA.”

 

Anthea snapped the laptop shut, and put the entire thing back into the drawer. She gave Sherlock a scathing look as she rose from her seat, “Wolves in glass cages often wish they had a stone to throw,” she said. She turned her attention to Mycroft. “You have a meeting.”

 

Mycroft dipped his head obligingly to his mate. He turned to slide the panel back over the flat screen before he offered her his arm. “Well then, my dear, we shall just have to be going.” As they headed out of the study, he called over his shoulder, “Tell Mummy I’m off.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes almost audibly. “I’m not your secretary,” he muttered.

 

John stared blankly at the carved wooden panel that had covered the flatscreen, then at the shelves of books in neat rows with their titles in golden letters and foreign languages. He glanced past Sherlock to the large desk, and then past the desk to the fireplace behind it, which was a carved marble. In the absence of Sherlock’s fingers moving through hair that was in need of a trim, John felt a bit like the world was tipped on end. 

 

“Did they just effectively parcel up the surveillance and begin an investigation?” John asked Sherlock.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Christ,” John replied, feeling a bit disoriented. He was suddenly glad he was sitting down. “That’s… rather terrifying, actually.”

 

“Welcome to the family,” Sherlock said.

 

John couldn’t help but laugh at that. He also couldn’t help if the laugh sounded the tiniest bit hysterical.

 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock replied, “eventually you’ll introduce me to yours. I’m reliably certain that my reaction will be similar.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit, dear readers, that I have fudged a bit of the techno-know-how in this chapter. I was never a communications major, and so any and all references to cellular systems, wire tapping information, and data storage routines on communications is purely made up. (I wasn't particularly up on getting put on some list for the research, though I imagine there'd be little harm in it these days.)
> 
> The best I have in reference to it is an emerging problem that we had when running wireless microphone systems inside a metropolitan area rife with cell towers at the advent of HD channels on television. (We're talking circa 2005 here.) The trouble was the following: there is a finite amount of frequency available to a standardized wireless microphone. In the US that frequency competes with radio as well as broadcast television signals. They had (probably still do) a map of the frequency and the spots on the frequency of what is viable for usage. You purchase mics with a signal in an "open" area of the frequency, and pretty much hope that the theaters and venues around you don't have the same ones. Well, and HD tv signal takes up several times a normal signal, so you're looking at less "open" frequencies. And there's no regulation on this sort of thing, so basically you have to work around it.
> 
> Reverse-engineering that into Dartmoor means that it's probably an area with very little cell coverage, so there's loads of open frequency to use, but any digital transmission is going to require a base station somewhere. Durga's theory is that it was a semi-remote server processing the data required for the communications.
> 
> (And for this I would like to thank my high school computer club, my undergraduate professors, and several sound engineers.)
> 
> Also, this chapter completes Exogamy, or at least the first half of it. The second half of it will come later, so I'll be marking this story as "complete" for now.


End file.
